Canaan's Tongue (28 page)

A Privy Conference.

’I’M FIXED TO PASS A CATHERINE-WHEEL, Kennedy says. I’m fixed to pass a oliphant.

Artfer that shite-party over Harvey’s remains I go straight to the privy-house and wait for the End to come. I’ve hardly got the door shut and my pants unknickered when the privy door goes gloomy and I hear the End outside.

You! says I. You’ve gone and pinched my britches proper.

We’ve each of us to answer for our own misdeeds, Mr. Kennedy, says the End.

You see what they done to me back there? Did you? I looks down into the hole and spits. Of
course
you did.

The End gives a sad and pityish sort of breath and runs its fingers up the slats. I gave you the mulatto, Mr. Kennedy. I gave him to you and you fecked it.

I works my knees together and groans. I want to kill that cheeky niggra boy, says I.

He’s not for you, says the End. You had your go.

When I gets my two hands on him—

Give your hands a holy-day, Mr. Kennedy. They’ve earned it.

These bleeding hands have been on holy-days since I come to this darmed property, says I. I’ve had my share of idle hours. I’m wanting a bit of work.

Mind yourself, Kennedy, says the End.

I’ll mind your nobbin, says I. But I says it quiet.

You’ll have work soon enough, says the End. For now, use your eyes. You’ll see me before you hear me, the next time I come round.

I looks out at the dark. Meaning?

Just that, says the End. Chew on it awhile.

It can’t be much longer now, says I. Can it?

The End gives a laugh. That’s right, Stuts. It can’t be much longer now.

I says nary then. The End breathes up and down in its hennish, endish way.

THE PRIVY WERE THE PLACE the End picked for our chats. I had nary any say in the picking of it. I don’t abject to it, however, on account of my time is dear to me and two birds in a bush, et cetera, as they say. And in fact I’m feeling a chick-a-dee coming on.

If you’d step away from the precincts a moment, Your Endfulness, says I.

Work away, Mr. Kennedy, says the End. I don’t mind.

That gives me a tickle. Miss the days when you had a body, sir? says I.

The End laughs then but it don’t come out proper. It comes out in a sort of a dryness, like wind through standing corn. All up the sudden the memory of my own Marmsie come to me of which I haven’t thought in ages. What would the old pussy have said to see me bow-legged in a privy, trading how-dos with the End of All Creation! I give another laugh and the End joins in behind. And that second laugh is dryer still and it turns my guts to hear it.

Dearest Mary, marther of God, says I, doing up my knicks.

Leave it to an Irish, says the End, spitting air. Leave it to an Irish to say his prayers in a shite-house.

You’ll have your fun, says I. But remember this: I never prayed to you.

You will, Mr. Kennedy. Give it time.

Give me that niggra, you cotton-mouth! What’s he to you? You’ve got so many.
Give
him to me, Marm.

I’m not your mother, the End say, moving off. The shack goes sunnyish again.

Oh! I know that. I know that full and well. You’re just the opposite.

Good-bye, Stuts, says the End. Use your eyes!

What about Ball? says I. I says it quick and tender.

The End stops. What about him?

You don’t need Ball for anything. Give me Ball.

The privy goes dark. Dear Stutter Kennedy, the End says. It warms my heart that you’ve learnt so little from our chats. Bless you, Stuts. Bless your dear pure heart and your tender brain. Virgil Ball, Mr. Kennedy, is the most important of them all. Expect great things from Virgil Ball.

Ball is a mess-maker, says I. That’s all he is. If it weren’t for that bug-eyed donkey-pat I’d have got this house in order long ago.

Praps that’s why, says the End.

I peep through the slats. Praps
what’s
why?

Praps that’s why I need him.

That riles me. That shambling cunt? That arse-hole-chafer? What the devil do you need him for? I thought Stuts Kennedy was your boy!

You
are
my boy, the End says. Don’t forget it.

Well then, says I. Give me Virgil. Give me Virgil or the mulatto.

Another dry hiss. And what will you give
me,
Stutter, in exchange?

I’ll give you killing. That’s what you’re artfer, aren’t it?

The End says nary for a time. The slats go sunnyish again.

Do up your britches, Mr. Kennedy, it says at last. I may have work for you at that.

A Silent Supper.

VIRGIL WANTS TO INTERVIEW PARSON, Delamare says.

“Interview” he calls it, though the idea of sitting that old widow-maker down on the settee and exchanging views doesn’t bear much looking into. D’Ancourt tried that, and got laughed at and hissed over for his pains. I point this out to Virgil.

Virgil answers that D’Ancourt is a dried-up, flatulent old dog-dropping and I can’t rightly disagree. I wouldn’t mind seeing Virgil squirm a little, either. So when we come across Parson on our way down to the river—my first morning back on my two feet—I step aside and let Virgil go to market.

“Benedictions, gentlemen,” Parson says. “Headed down to your daily dunking?”

“Not me,” says Virgil. “I was baptized as a baby.”

Parson gives a sympathetic nod. “That’s prudent. I’ve heard tell that followers of Spinoza simmer in holy water like ducks’ eggs in a skillet.” He smiles at me. “That Mr. Delamare, here, feels no ill effects, is proof of his mental chastity.”

“What’s your opinion on Harvey’s killing?” Virgil says, apropos of nothing. “Might it have been Kennedy?”

“It might have been
me,
” Parson says. His snakish spine uncurls till he looks twice the size of us. “I didn’t know you were so interested in fat little Harvey’s passing. Have you slipped into D’Ancourt’s slippers, Mr. Ball?”

“God forbid that,” Virgil mumbles. The lack of concern in Parson’s voice—and the cold, dry appetite behind it—makes Virgil’s head pull back into his collar.

“I haven’t taken the Colonel’s place, Parson,” he says. “Still, I can’t help but be curious—”

“No! You can’t help
that,
Virgil,” Parson says sweetly. “You’re a man of science, after all. You couldn’t leave a closed box closed if a copper-head was sleeping on top of it. That’s what makes it such a delight to have you about—: the world is forever new to you.”

“I want to know about Canaan’s tongue,” Virgil says.

At the mention of that name every last thing hushes—: the leaves cease their rattling and the birds quiet in their shrubs. Parson looks at Virgil as a sparrow might look at a poppy-seed.

“Ah! There’s quite a lot to tell, on that score. Where should I begin?”

Virgil takes a breath. “You told Kennedy that Harvey was speaking it before he died. And Harvey himself mentions it in his letter.”

Parson looks at me and winks. “That wasn’t a question, Virgil.”

“What is Canaan’s tongue, Parson?” I hear myself asking. My voice is quick and childish.

“Have you soaked up some of Virgil’s curiosity, Mr. Delamare? How creditable!” Parson wets his downy lips. “Canaan’s tongue, dear boy, is the language of the elect. The language out of whose mash all our so-called ‘mysteries’ have been distilled. There are thirty-seven words for ‘satisfaction’ in the tongue, but not a single word for ‘sin.’ ” Parson clucks his tongue at me. “Even dark-skinned men may speak this language, Oliver.” He looks back at Virgil. “Even Mormons may speak it.”

“Who’d have thought Goodman Harvey was so close to heaven,” Virgil says.

Parson’s lips give a twitch. “It is
this
world I am speaking of, Virgil. Not some fairy kingdom.”

“Then speak English, damn your eyes! Do all of God’s chosen eat permanganate of potassium for breakfast?”

Parson shakes his head. “
English,
Virgil, is the entire cause of your confusion. I could explain further about the tongue, but I’d have to use the tongue to do it. And neither of you have the necessary fluency.”

“I’ll find someone to give me lessons,” Virgil says.

“Harvey’s tutor might be free,” Parson answers. “Shall I put in a good word for you?”

Virgil says nothing, breathing in panicked little gasps. Parson watches him serenely. “You’re wondering if
I
tutored him, of course. A reasonable thing to wonder. I can only say that if I had, things might have turned out differently for that little pot of suet.”

“I’m sure they would have, sir,” I offer.

“Thank you, Oliver.”

Virgil hunches forward, struggling for air.

“Short of breath, Virgil?” says Parson. “A touch of ague, perhaps? A bilious complaint? I might have a bottle of something that can help.”

Virgil says nothing. Parson moves his head from side to side like a clock-weight, studying him. “Any questions, Oliver?” he says out of the corner of his mouth.

“Nothing but, Parson,” I reply.

“I have a question for you, as well.” Parson hums to himself. “Have you ever been to a silent supper?”

A silent supper? I shake my head.

“No?” Parson takes me by the shoulder. “I’ll tell you about it, then. This is how it’s done.”

I shrug his hand away. “What I’d prefer to know, Parson, is—”

Parson presses a loose-skinned finger to my mouth.

“
Listen,
Oliver, and attend. Several girls prepare a supper in the dark, doing everything backwards and without speaking a word. When the meal is ready, they put a pan of water and a towel on the door-step, and leave the house-door open to the night. Each girl brings a chair to the table, then stands silently beside the chair and waits.” Parson looks from me to Virgil. “The future husbands of the girls will soon appear, wash themselves in the pan of water, dry themselves with the towel, then sit down in the chairs to eat. When they have finished they will leave the house exactly as they came.” Parson’s gamey old breath wicks along my ear—: “That’s how
babies
are made, Oliver.”

Virgil shouts a curse. “Who murdered Harvey? Answer me, you damned witch! Do we have to cook a dinner backwards to get an answer out of you?”

Parson pauses a moment, smiling into his collar, then says carefully and crisply, as though reading from a book—:

“While the husbands are eating, they converse with one another. They talk of the things they’ve seen on their way to the house. And if the girls are clever—if the girls have ears to hear—they listen and attend. For the future will bring every last thing their fiancées describe.” Parson takes a step forward and allows his back to settle into its habitual crook. “What language do you think those husbands converse in, gentlemen? Surely you don’t suppose it’s English?”

Neither of us answer. Parson beckons us closer.

“Canaan’s tongue is the language of future things.” His voice drops to a whisper. “The future, gentlemen, is its one and only tense. Soon— very soon—there will
be
no other language. Some will speak the tongue, some will obey it. And each of us will be asked to choose between those two societies.” Parson cocks his head at Virgil. “Which will you choose, Mr. Ball?”

“Which did Harvey choose?”

But Parson has already turned his back on us, tipping and bobbing toward the house as if he had paddle-wheels for feet.

“He’s a great one for riddles,” I mutter as we watch him go.

“He knows who killed Harvey,” Virgil says. “He knows everything about it.”

I nod. “What’s more, he knows you think so. And he doesn’t seem to mind.”

“But there is something else he minds,” Virgil says, keeping his eyes on Parson. “Something he wants us not to see. Behind all his sport there’s a living fact—or perhaps only a question—that he’s desperate to keep us from discovering. He wants us in the dark, Oliver. Like the girls at that damn supper.”

“If that’s what he wants, my hat goes off to him,” I say.

“Canaan’s tongue is the key to it—; that much I’m sure of.” Virgil chews on his lip for awhile. “It means what Parson says it does, of course, but it means something else besides.” He turns to me. “And so does that cattle-brand. That shape. The one in Harvey’s letter.”

“Cattle-brand?” I say. “What cattle-brand? Are you speaking Parson’s English now?”

“I had a vision this morning,” Virgil says.

I give him a good hard look. His face is solemn as an urn.

“Spare me your wheels of fire, Virgil. They become a man of reason poorly.”

He takes a nervous breath and clutches at my sleeve, the same sleeve that Parson clawed at not five minutes gone. “Do you recollect that shape in Harvey’s letter?”

I think a moment. “That boxy sort of scribble? From the meeting at the Old Grange?”

“That’s the one.” His voice goes shrill and eager. “I’ve seen that shape
before,
Oliver.”

I look toward the house. Parson is nowhere to be seen.

“So have I,” I say.

Virgil all but vaults into the air. “I knew it! I
knew
it! Where was it, Oliver? Did you manage to find out what it means?”

I regard him evenly for the briefest of instants, allowing myself to commit his slack-jawed, slavering look to memory. My satisfaction has arrived, easily and completely, as I knew it would. I take Virgil’s full measure, remind myself that he sent Kennedy to kill me, then calmly free my shirt-sleeve from his grip.

“It means ‘Suffer fools,’ Virgil,” I say to him. “And you’ve been had for one. That sign is a Cherokee fool-catcher.”

The Victoria Diamint.

SOON ENOUGH, Dodds says. Didn’t it come down on me soon.

Virgil come jabbering about that hole. I knew when I dugged it a body might see it and come round fussing. Praps I reckoned it. Praps I reckoned he would come.

Virgil find me by the griddle in the cook-house, pulling cuts off a ham-brace and stewing sundry greens.

Dodds, he say. I’m puzzled by your diggings.

I shake my head. I’m puzzlit by them, too.

Praps we can puzzle it out together, he say. He give a cough. Who said to dig behind the tobacco shed?

Parson, I say, fussing at the ham.

Parson, he say. All right.

I commence to cutting onions.

What for, Dodds? Did he say what for?

He said most likely they was more to come.

Virgil face go flat. More whats? More burials? More holes?

More killings, I say.

Virgil hush.

So, I say. I askit could I get started.

Dodds, Virgil say. He voice gone soft and jumpish. Did Parson give a reason why?

I tolt you it, I say. They likely come more killings—

Yes but
why,
Dodds? Why would there be more?

I pull my shoulders up. I askit that already.

Virgil swallow and shuffle and blink. What did Parson say?

I take in a longish breathe. I grin at Virgil and scratch behind my ears and watch him stew and fret himself. Then I give it to him like a sweet.

Parson said to me, Three reasons, Doddsbody.

Three reasons, Virgil say. He say it slowly back to me, like a lesson.

That’s right. Then Parson put three fingers up. Reason one! he say. You know, Doddsbody, that to meet a friend on the street, and to pass him by like a stranger, is a sure and proven death-sign for that friend.

Virgil hush for a time. Well?

Everybody on the river know that, Parson, I tolt him. Right, he say. Reason two! You must also know, Doddsy, that two persons saying the same thing at the same time, in one another’s company, means a violent ending for one of them.

Virgil open he mouth and close it.

Yes, Parson, I said. I know it. Then Parson tappit me on the collar. What are the tenants of this
house,
Charlie, but a group of friends living together as enemies, passing one another by without knowing it, and reciting the same words over and over, all of them together, like deaf-mutes at a mass?

Virgil eyes go slantish.

There you have it, Marse.

You ape our Parson beautifully, Dodds. You might have passed for a man of God yourself, just now. You sound positively schooled.

And me just a tom-fool nigger, I say.

Virgil blink and go flushed. I’m sorry, Dodds. I meant no harm by it. Go on.

Well—

Go on, Dodds! Tell me the rest.

All right, I say. That’s all, Parson? I askit. That’s all, Doddsbody, he say.

Virgil squint again. But—

But you still got one finger in the air, Parson, I tolt him. That were only the two reasons.

Bless you! What did he say to that?

I’ll tell you. Parson look at he third finger like he never seen it yet. Oh!
That,
he say. That’s just my lumbago, Charlie boy.

Virgil face turn to mush. That’s all? That’s everything? That’s all he said to you?

You know how Parson get, Virgil. When you try to press him.

Yes, say Virgil. Yes. I know.

We hush a spell, looking toward the river.

Dodds, he mumble.

Present!

Has he mentioned Canaan’s tongue to you?

Tongue of which?

Never mind, Virgil say. He take a breath.

Right, I say. Well. If you allow, Marse Virgil, they a power of work—

What about this, then? he say. He pull out a paper and fuss it open and hold it under my nose like a kerchief. Have you come across this anywhere? This symbol?

I give the paper a turn. I knew what it was before I seen it. I tip my head at him and grin. Sure, Marse Virgil. I come across it once.

You have? Then—

That the Victoria diamint! I know that much. They got a paste of it in Memphis. I seen it in a show.